Hypothermia
by TheSoliloquy
Summary: Boromir falls gravely ill at the base of Caradhras, leaving each of the Fellowship to consider the qualities of the Captain of Gondor as he fights delirium. -Told In Vignettes-
1. Pippin

**Title: **Hypothermia**  
Characters: **The Fellowship of nine**  
Timeline: **Caradhras, Pre-Moria  
**Summary: **Boromir falls gravely ill at the base of Caradhras, leaving the Fellowship to reflect upon the Captain of Gondor as he fights delirium.  
**A/N:** I love Boromir, but sadly killed him off in my other story- as is in canon- so have decided to write a story of the other Fellowship member's views on him. There will be eight chapters at _most_, though I may ignore one or two companions if I run out of ideas. Each chapter will be short, most likely less than 1000 words, and from the viewpoints of different companions. To be honest, I'm using it as something to do as I battle writer's block for my other story 'Starcrossed.' Hope you enjoy it though! Read on and review...

**Disclaimer: **Middle-earth and all in it belong solely to Tolkein

**Chapter POV: **Pippin  
**Chapter Word Count: **422 (as counted by Microsoft Word)**  
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**Hypothermia  
**Pippin

Pippin's small and sweaty grip on Boromir's larger hand was firm and steadfast as he desperately pulled the stumbling Gondorian along, shrill voice shattering the cold morning air as he yelled for the others.

"GANDALF! STRIDER!"

He'd only wanted to go on a quick exploration of Caradhras' base, a little look-see of the white trees of the icy plains, and now the Hobbit was left in the snowy wilderness with a soaked and disorientated man, for whom he was fearful. Their roles should have been the reverse, with Pippin being the wet one and Boromir the one to help him. He may have even drowned in the depths of molten ice had the Gondorian not saved him, flinging the halfling to safety while he himself plunged down. Calling again into the trees, Pippin tugged harder on Boromir's arm, leading the shivering Gondorian in the vague direction of the cave, and inside of said cave, the Fellowship, camping and roasting mushrooms on a spit over a roaring fire. He longed to be there, for warmth for not only him but also the man in his grip; Boromir _needed_ warmth. But, instead, Pippin's tug was met with sudden resistance and he spun to find Boromir on his knees, skin leeching slowly white and shoulders slumped in sheer exhaustion as he hung his head.

"Boromir!" Pippin cried as he rushed to his side, pleading with the man, "Please, Boromir, just a bit further!"

"C-c-cold." The soldier could only stutter, another shudder rippling through his powerful body.

"I know, I know!" Pippin began to cry, hysteria drowning him as he gripped Boromir's shoulders, shaking him into wakefulness, "Just a little bit further, Boromir, then you'll be warm, there'll a fire, blankets, _Sam's broth_! Just a little further, Boromir, just a little."

Eventually, he coaxed the man to shaking feet, Pippin's arms wrapped around the broad man's waist and Boromir's hand gripping his shoulder as they attempted a laborious step, but only for the man's strength to fail and send him once again to his knees. Shivers racked Boromir as he slumped tiredly, head resting on Pippin's shoulder with drooping eyelids.

"I'm sorry, Pippin…" He murmured softly.

But the hobbit was never one to give up; his stubbornness had him heaving off Boromir's shield and soaked fur cloak, again hollering into the harsh wind.

"_GANDALF!_"

They huddled in the snow, the man and the hobbit, the latter hugging the foremost in a crushing embrace, attempting to share his body warmth. And all the while, praying for help.


	2. Merry

**Chapter POV**: Merry  
**Chapter Word Count: **500

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**Hypothermia  
**Merry 

The sausages stretched into a sleazy smile, the mushrooms two monochromatic eyes gazing blindly up at him from the plate in his hands, and the irony of 'happy grub, happy heart, happy Hobbit' stung Merry's comedic nature with unforgiving force. He wanted to lighten the mood. He wanted to make a joke and show the others the face he was about to devour, or show Pip at the least. But when he nudged his cousin all he received was a disinterested side-glance as the younger Hobbit stared down at his own plate.

Merry wearily cast his thoughts back an hour or two, when his younger cousin's desperate roars broke the calm and pleasant atmosphere of nonchalant chatter and excited cooking, the noise faint yet enough to set Aragorn and Legolas leaping to their feet and out into the snow. It seemed to Merry that only Gandalf had kept calm when the two soon returned with the trailing Pippin, lugging a dazed and stunned Boromir between them- a sight that had the hobbits in a state of fright. 'Orcs!' 'They've found us already?' 'Oh my ol' gaffer _told_ me the world's a dangerous place!'

Though, even the old Istar had raised a grey eyebrow when Pip had tearfully informed them of the true scenario, as the Ranger and the Elf set about stripping the soaked and shivering Gondorian in the background of the hubbub. Gandalf had easily and swiftly put an end to their hysteria with few words, instructing them to gather any materials able to be spared. They'd gathered what they'd been asked of. And some.

Boromir had long since been silent, huddled and shivering in one cave corner, drowsy and naked but for the layers of blankets and warm materials wrapped snugly around him, temple resting against the wall as he stared blankly at the floor. His eyes broke contact with the rock only when Aragorn crouched down beside him and draped another blanket around his upper body, flickering over and blinking lethargically at him as the Ranger patted his shoulder comfortingly, before resuming their sluggish stare. Merry was no healer, but he knew that anything that reduced a mighty warrior such as Boromir to this was bad, very bad. But Isildur's heir had simply sighed at the lack of response, before stepping out of the cave where Gandalf smoked his pipe.

Merry had no doubt that they were discussing their options, whether they should stay until Boromir was well again, or move on quickly despite the man's obvious ailment. They were worried about Wargs, and that was painfully obvious. Not a day before had they come across tracks: a week old but enough to cause concern. They didn't want to risk a confrontation, but they had only two choices: hide, or run. But if they ran, how would they escape sabre-toothed beasts with a man who wasn't well enough to stand on his own two feet?

Merry would be damned if he let them drag Boromir over Caradhras.


	3. Legolas

**Chapter POV: **Legolas  
**Chapter Word Count: **587

I had originally posted this chapter at the second, but realised my error when I set Merry's POV before it and subsequently swapped them around. Review much appreciated!

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**Hypothermia  
**Legolas 

The sound of harsh, uneven breathing interlaced with thick coughs and ragged gasps were loud and resonating behind the elf as he stood at the cave mouth, bow gripped tightly in his hands as he glanced back over his shoulder. Most of the little ones were huddled together against one stonewall; two threadbare blankets shared between the three as anxiety and worry riddled their cherubic faces- even Pippin's. It should not be so, Legolas decided, for one as young and as innocent as Master Peregrin to portray such raw emotion. But the circumstance called for it, and that could not be helped. Legolas frowned deeply at the thought, his pale gaze straying to the dwarf and the fourth hobbit- Gimli, stoking the fire in an attempt to bring what warmth he possibly could to the cave, and Samwise, fervently stirring a pot above the embers, while muttering as he often did. Gandalf and Aragorn, on the other hand, were occupied in another way entirely, a poignant scene as the two bent over the trembling figure on the floor; the very reason the hobbits shared a mere two blankets.

Boromir lay on his side, curled into a fetal position on the few spare robes and blankets that separated him from the dank cave floor; he was swathed in the rest in an attempt to quell the shivers, and deter the uncontrollable chill that gripped him, biting into his bones and throwing him into delirium. He shuddered and he gasped; he coughed and he quaked; he shook and he sweat relentlessly despite the radiating cold of his skin. No elf Legolas knew had ever fallen victim to this sickness, but his kin were strong in ways men weren't, and it needn't take a healer to know what plagued the Gondorian. Odd, how the elf's view of the soldier flitted from one thing to another. First, a man of arrogance, then one with a large heart- having played so joyfully with the little ones- then a formidable warrior, and now a hero sickened by the consequences of a good deed. He'd saved Pippin from this fate, only to succumb himself.

"Boromir? Hear me, Denethor son!" Gandalf deep bass called softly to the ill man, pushing back the sweat-dampened hair to feel Boromir's forehead when his reply was naught but a mere blink and rasping cough, "Samwise, make quick with that broth!"

The gardener- and cook- nodded promptly, pouring a bowl of the broth and handing it hastily to the wizard.

"Aragorn, bring him up." Said wizard ordered the ranger, picking up a wooden spoon as Aragorn wrapped his strong arms around Boromir's upper body, gingerly lifting the trembling Gondorian against his own chest. Boromir's head flopped limply back against his shoulder, lips slightly parted and eyes flickering feverishly as Gandalf carefully scooped the broth, bringing the spoon to his lips- only to have him turn his face away.

"Peace, Boromir. You _must_ eat!" Gandalf's commanding words of authority brought the soldier half back to awareness, and like a scolded child he obediently opened his mouth, pride forgotten as he allowed himself to be spoon-fed.

But his swallow was with great difficulty, and two spoons is all it took for him to jerk abruptly away from Aragorn, leaving him hanging in the ranger's grasp as he choked on the hot liquid, desperate whooping gasps rattling loudly in his chest as he spluttered and coughed.

Aragorn looked up then, and it was with great worry that the eyes of the man and elf met.


	4. Samwise

**Chapter POV: **Samwise  
**Chapter Length:** 569

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**Hypothermia  
**Samwise 

The Wargs were here.

Sam could hear them, howling beneath the moonlight and snuffling hungrily in the snow, hunting for their prey. It was enough that he wanted to run from the cave, screaming in fear and insanity but, as the others did, he waited it out in utter silence. It was only after much debating and deliberation that the fellowship- or rather, the big folk- had decided they could not run, and with the added voice of Mr. Frodo had chosen to hide in the confine spaces of their cave.

Of course, the big folk claimed the decision was based on the sheer speed of Wargs, but the gardener had suspected they thought the Hobbits unfit for such a race. He had muttered these very thoughts to his master, only for them to be shot down with a rare rebuke from the older Hobbit; Mr. Frodo had instead firmly turned his attention to another reason, one which Sam was ashamed to realise he'd been ignoring.

Now, he was in the middle of a bout of self-loathing as he leant over Mr. Boromir's trembling form, hand clamped over the Gondorian's mouth. He didn't want this, but the situation was a forced one. The Wargs had come not long after the failed attempt at spoon-feeding; giving them just enough time to put out the fire, bury the remaining scraps of food, and for Mr. Legolas to remove any prints and signs that could possibly lead the beasts to them: he even went as far as covering much of the cave mouth with branches and shrubbery.

The Fellowship were mute, each poised in a frozen position; some crouching, some hugging the walls, some gripping their weapons, but each rigid as they patiently waited. And then poor old Mr. Boromir- again on his side, knees drawn up to his chest- had been unable to keep silent for any longer; the cold simply became too much. Sam, closest to the man, had been burdened by a shooting look from Strider with the task of smothering his pitiful whimpers.

The sounds were almost inhuman, especially from the big bulk of the broad Mr. Boromir, and it made the Hobbit all the more uneasy as he stifled them. The man had quieted after that, but Sam could still feel him shivering beneath him. He felt the need to help him, reassure the Gondorian that he was safe, warm, with friends… but the only comforting action he could think of ended with him stroking Mr. Boromir's hair with his free hand as he crouched over him, the elbow of his other _offending _hand pressing against the broad chest in the shadow resemblance of a hug.

It wasn't as if he liked the man very much. No, he didn't hate him. And no, he certainly didn't wish any harm unto him, no, never. But he'd heard every one of his words at the council- how he spoke of the others' laziness while his kingdom fought in solitude against Mordor, how he wished to _use_ the ring, how he'd callously refused to recognise Strider as his king- and he'd seen how hungrily he'd looked at the ring. The man's presence had made him uncomfortable thus far on the journey, even if he'd taken so quickly and kindly to the Misters Pippin and Merry, and they to him.

But nevertheless, Sam hated himself for doing exactly what he was.


	5. Gimli

**Chapter POV: **Gimli  
**Chapter Word Count: **888

Reviews are much wanted and appreciated!

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**Hypothermia  
**Gimli

Gimli was bored.

Aragorn and Gandalf were gone from the cave with the intention of reassuring them all of the departure of the Wargs, the elf was in a tree high above, his all-seeing gaze within reach of both the cave and the other two, and Gimli was left as a bodyguard, with only pipe and pipe weed and the act of blowing smoke rings as his source of entertainment. The Hobbits chattered in the cave behind him; Frodo sat sullenly against a wall beside Merry- the latter attempting conversation; Sam crouched over the fire, muttering something about everyone needing to keep warm and how his mam's broth recipe was the best solution; Pippin tucked another blanket around Boromir.

The sight of the halfling's act was an unusual one, being as small as a child, but it warmed Gimli's heart as the youngest of the fellowship played the mother hen, making sure the blanket covered the man's legs and feet adequately as well as tucking his arms beneath. Turning his attention back to the forest, Gimli blew another ring of smoke, watching it curl in the air and drift off into the trees. Boromir had quieted greatly since the Wargs, his shivering disappearing almost completely, a seeming breakthrough that the Hobbits had at first celebrated until Aragorn told them otherwise; his condition had only deteriorated, and now he slipped in and out of consciousness as the fellowship looked on, helpless. The ranger had informed them that all they could do was what they already had been, keeping the Gondorian warm, protecting him from harm, and making sure he was never alone: the rest was up to the strength and will of Boromir himself. Gimli remembered what Samwise was forced to do when the Wargs came calling, and sympathy for the Hobbit caused him to bite down upon his pipe. To his bad luck, he missed it and his teeth instead closed shut on tongue. _Ai!_ With a colourful oath of pain he shoved his pipe back into his pocket, cursing as he tasted a silver of metallic and his tongue began to throb terribly.

Grimacing, he stepped away from the cave mouth, swirling the blood and saliva around in his mouth and spitting it out into the bushes. He cursed again at the sound of elven laughter, whirling around to face the soft sound only to find the blond streak jump again out of sight and into another tree. _Damn Elf,_ Gimli thought foully, _I sincerely hope he falls, preferably into a large pile of deer's excrements, or- _He went on to list a few more less than sanitary scenarios for the elf, but when moving on to thoughts concerning rabid squirrels was interrupted by a terrified cry.

"Gimli!"

The dwarf started, hand on axe as he jumped around. _A Halfling? Ai, to the cave! _He charged forward, fully expecting the Hobbits to be in the clutches of diabolical spiders; a perfect chance for the dwarf to show the elf how a true warrior worked, heroics or not. What he found, however, was far from it.

Boromir lay on the floor, twisting and turning and tearing at the blankets and his clothing with vicious force as he cried out in distress and delirium. The Hobbits had banded together in an attempt to restrain him, with Sam's full weight thrown over his legs, Frodo's over his body, and with Merry and Pippin trying to control his flailing arms and bucking shoulders. With horror, Gimli saw how Pippin held fast onto Boromir's head to prevent it from connecting with the hard ground as the man repeatedly attempted to bang it against the ground, as if to knock haunting images from his mind. It was painfully obvious that he was going to hurt himself if this carried on.

"_ELF!_" Gimli roared at the top of his lungs, scrambling into the cave and towards the commotion as Frodo was thrown off- much to Sam's chagrin- and the cook was forced to release Boromir's legs to avoid further kicks.

It gave the dwarf his opening and he immediately threw himself onto the struggling Gondorian, weight pinning him down onto his front as he writhed beneath him. Boromir's elbow crashed into Gimli's jaw before the dwarf was able to envelop him in a bear hug, securing the man's arms against his sides, and yet, still, the Gondorian continued to squirm, his unintelligible cries fading into coherent pleas.

"No, please!" He whimpered, "L-let me go, let me go…"

And then suddenly the elf was there, bent low, clutching Boromir's face in his hands, forcing the man's own frightened eyes to meet his. A torrent of elvish fled from his lips, and even in Gimli's mind were the words beautiful. He felt the man's struggles gradually begin to weaken as he calmed, until finally Boromir's eyes fluttered close in the elf's caress and he slumped in Gimli's grip. Carefully, the dwarf released his hold, getting up only to have Pippin immediately come forward. Tutting, the young Hobbit knelt down beside the unconscious Boromir, lifting his head to slip a makeshift pillow beneath his cheek, before straightening the man's black undershirt from where it'd lifted in the confusion to reveal bare flesh, then again arranging blankets over him.

"Well, now" Pippin tutted, "what was that all about?"


	6. Frodo

**Chapter POV: **Frodo  
**Chapter Word Count: **594

Reviews make me happy.

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**Hypothermia  
**Frodo 

"He still looks cold."

The murmur was hushed, a whisper penetrating the silence of the cave as most of the company slept. Merry and Pippin were halfway through their watch, paired up as they often were- and Frodo simply could not sleep. More often now came the nights where he would find no rest, and lay awake on his mat listening to the sounds of the night or the companion on watch; at the moment, he found reassurance beneath closed lids as he listened to the whispering of his younger cousins. As Pippin repeated the statement, Frodo slowly eased open his eyes, taking care not to let the two know of his awakening. They sat on a log; huddled together in a bid to share their warmth as they contemplated the Gondorian- whether Boromir was unconscious or simply asleep was now hard to distinguish given his current illness. Silent as the night, the Ringbearer watched as Pippin rose from the log and tiptoed towards the Man.

"_Pippin!" _Merry hissed in warning, but was ignored by the younger Hobbit as he crouched carefully down beside Boromir's lightly shivering form.

Slowly, tongue sticking smartly from the corner of his mouth, Pippin touched the back of his hand to Boromir's cheek, visibly sighing in relief as the Man made no additional movement at the contact; not a stir nor a twitch.

"He still _feels_ cold."

A small furrow appeared beneath his eyebrows, and with a flourish he pulled his own blanket over Boromir- to no avail. The Hobbit's brow pulled into a deeper frown, lips pursed, as the clogs in his mind seemed to visibly turn. He grinned suddenly, face lit with an idea before he bit his lip and gingerly began to crawl under the blankets, ignoring Merry's further hisses and protests as he found his way beneath the layers. With a barely audible sniff, Pippin shuffled against the Man's body, pressing himself against Boromir's side and snaking his arm over his broad chest to ensure the sharing of heat. Even from where Frodo lay he could see it had worked, and the Man seemed to ease with Pippin's presence, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his shivers ceased and he sank a little further to the ground.

Frodo had a sudden urge to join the other Hobbit, brief yet powerful as he pictured himself by Boromir- but he suppressed it swiftly. He knew how the ring affected the Man so, and he was ill enough as it was without the whispers of the accursed thing to wound him further… He didn't want to make it worse.

And so he lay motionless as Merry tiptoed to join Pippin, adding his own blanket to the pile before squirming to Boromir's other side and pressing close. It was a few moments before another whisper was heard.

"What about our watch?" Merry, ever mindful of his duty, whispered curiously.

"We can still keep watch here," Pippin replied, ignorant of the blatant drowsiness evident in his small voice, "I don't fall asleep _that _easily, you know."

Yet, not long after, Frodo found himself smiling as the two's soft snores drift over. Smile widening, he wearily sat up and saw that they had fallen asleep to the rhythm of Boromir's steady breathing- but he decided against waking them, doing so would break his own heart as he looked upon the pleasant sight of the three.

Instead, Frodo Baggins simply took up a place on the abandoned log, drew his blanket around him, and sat the rest of his cousins' watch.


	7. Gandalf

**Chapter POV: **Gandalf  
**Chapter Word Count: **465

I've decided that I'm going to have TWO more chapters, one for Boromir's POV, and the last, an epilogue of sorts from Aragorn's POV.

Please Review!

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**Hypothermia  
**Gandalf

The last watch, and Gandalf had woken to the sight of an amused Aragorn, dark eyes twinkling mysteriously. He'd have asked the nature of the Ranger's mirth, had Aragorn not quickly lain down onto his mat with a grin and the source of amusement become very clear to the Wizard not long after. He himself had laughed quietly at sight of the slumbering Company: naturally, Sam was curled barely an inch away from Frodo, around whom lay a semi-circle of Aragorn, his back to the cave's opening, the loudly snoring Gimli, and Legolas- whose eyes glinted wide, as was in the elven nature.

And further into the cave, but a little ways away from the Ringbearer and Gardener, slept Boromir, at last truly peaceful for the first time since his illness. The shivers had been completely absent, his breath steady and without trouble, the colour returned to his once-pale face; on either side of him, cuddled close, the small forms of the Took and the Brandybuck. Evidently, both Hobbits had somehow managed to sneak under the many blankets, and their shared warmth indeed improved Boromir's health dramatically. _A most ingenious act_, Gandalf had admitted to himself, unabashedly proud of the strong bonds already tied between the Company members. Pippin's arm was draped over Boromir- his curly head lay on the broad chest and rose and fell with each of the Man's breaths. Merry, on the other hand, was simply burrowed into his side, and as Boromir's protective arms had wound subconsciously around both Hobbits in the night, his head rested part on the Man's shoulder, turned down into his own chest.

The Wizard had moved cautiously forward, old knees crackling like parchment as he stooped and laid a hand on Boromir's brow, feeling at his temperature. Boromir stirred lightly at his touch, eyes flickering open, his somewhat hazy gaze resting on the Istar. Gandalf had smiled softly down at him, let the calm of his mind seep through him and down into his hand, soothed the confused glint in the grey of Boromir's eyes.

"The illness has passed." He'd told him quietly, "Rest, Boromir. There is a while yet afore we move on."

The Gondorian had gazed a moment more, before his eyes slid shut again under the heavy weight of fatigue, and with a small, grateful sigh he sank down and fell back asleep…

Now, Gandalf watched the night sky pale to welcome the coming of the sun. Already, the distant mountains betrayed its arrival as they glinted before the peach tendrils of dawn, and in an hour or two he would have to wake the Fellowship. Turning to glance again at the trio, Gandalf carefully sorted his lightly soot-dusted robes with a small utterance, chewed thoughtfully on the pipe and kept his vigil.


	8. Boromir

**Chapter POV: **Boromir  
**Chapter Word Count:** 1,377

This is by far the longest chapter, as, unlike the others, it's set in 1st person, present tense in Boromir's POV, and spans the previous seven chapters. Only one more chapter to go now! :D

Read on and review...

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**Hypothermia  
**Boromir

I am cold, very cold, aware only of a small hand tugging desperately on mine, and of Pippin's sweet voice, pitch heightened further with despair. Of before, I remember naught, only a sense of protectiveness and the crushing weight water. And now, we two are in the white snow. Pippin is pleading with me, but no matter how hard I try, how hard I will my limbs to move, my strength fails me. Smalls hands pull at my shield, my cloak, and arms wrap around me, my face presses into a warm shoulder… Pippin is yelling again, and suddenly two other voices join his and stronger hands have me. I want to remind them of my shield and my cloak, but my throat is raw and I can't speak but for the chattering of my teeth. I'm sure Pippin will remember. Pippin is a good lad, a smart lad- much like Faramir.

I am carried more than guided somewhere by the strong hands, and now there are more voices, chattering and panicking. We are in the cave, I think absently to myself, as a deep bass voice silences the others. The strong hands are now on my clothes, stripping me of the near frozen materials, and I let them for I have no strength to do otherwise. I simply shiver, even more so when my bare flesh comes into contact with the air, before the hands are wrapping me in towels and blankets, lovely and warm. I still cannot relax. Someone pulls me into a warm embrace- "Aragorn?" – and I am aware of a soothing voice in my ear- "Aye, 'tis me. Relax, Boromir, all shall be well." I hold no doubt he says this just to calm me, but with the warmth of his body I allow myself to sink further into his embrace, pride and rivalry forgotten… Soon, I gain enough strength and composure to sit unaided against a wall, still swathed in layers of blankets, and my mind wanders… I try to think warm thoughts, of summers in Minas Tirith. I feel Aragorn wrap yet another blanket around me. Sam describes aloud the food he is cooking, somehow turning bland into spice. I am grateful, but these attempts at comfort are futile.

The cold bites deeper into my bones. I can feel only the bitter cold and pain, pain and the bitter cold. I want only to curl into myself; I can barely breathe, as if a fog has descended into my lungs and seeks to choke me. Dimly, I feel that I now lie on the floor, but the comforting hands can no longer soothe me. There is a hand on my brow, a voice in the air, but I cannot decipher words, cannot obey. I am pulled to a chest, arms wrap around me- the heartbeat against my back is almost soothing- and a spoon of broth hovers before my mouth. I cannot! Just the mere thought of broth sends a wave of nausea and fear washing through me, but I hear Mithrandir command me, and I've learnt by now that what Mithrandir says must be right. I take a sip, and another, before my fears prove well placed and I falter, jerking away from the chest and choking on the liquid. My lungs seem to shrink, I cannot breathe, and a hand on my back, a voice in my ear, encourages me. In and out. In and out. _"Breathe, Boromir!"_

Soon, I can breathe again and no more broth is coaxed into me. I am lain back down and glad of it; I simply close my eyes and collect myself as much I can as blankets are laid atop me. I think warm thoughts... But the others are distressed, they move hastily around, and a hand is on my shoulder as a voice tells me of the situation. _Wargs_! I must be silent, and I know it. I hear and feel my comrades tense and still, shut my mouth against the ragged gasps and I try with all my might to rein in the pain. But the cold is my enemy here; it tries with all _its_ might to bring me down and now chooses to close in. The pain is worse than ever. I have failed them all: the Wargs will surely find us because of my weakness! In my mind I hear my Father's rebukes; I cannot help the whimpers, cannot halt them, but a hand clamps over my mouth and suppresses them for me. If not for the pain I would be grateful, for now I can only quake with it. A hand strokes my hair, some form of limb presses again my chest in a ghost of a hug and I allow myself to be soothed. The hand strokes, strokes, strokes and with its calming touch I battle the cold- no longer alone. Strength through unity, as is the Gondorian way… It is not long before the Wargs leave, and I know, for the others are now bustling around me and I relax. The shivers stop abruptly, like an extinguished fire. I feel my breath slow, my muscles relax and I wonder if this is an improvement? But my limbs are heavy now, so much heavier than before. My head lolls, my jaw slackens and all I am able of is sinking to the ground. Someone rolls me onto my back, a hand feels my cheek. My eyelids droop like lead and all goes black.

For a while I float in the darkness, alone and cold. Is this the end? I can imagine it now, my tombstone standing in unknown frozen lands, engraved upon it 'Boromir of Gondor, taken from Middle-earth by the cold.' I cannot allow that. If I am to die, let it be by the point of a sword or an arrow. If I am to die far from Minas Tirith, let it be a worthy death. And even if I must fall within the boundaries of my beloved Gondor, let it be for my beloved Little Ones…

But fate will not see me end here. I slip in and out of consciousness, dimly recalling scattered voices. I hear excitement. I hear excitement cut off by severity. Hands are on me; more blankets are piled on. And soon I feel burning. My blood boils, and heat I have never before felt ignites my flesh. I jerk back into awareness, enough for me to tear at my own clothes. _Ai, the BURNING!_ But hands stop me; bodies drape over mine and force me down as I struggle. Pain flares behind my eyes, resonates in my head and I cry out from the pain, screaming and trying in vain to knock the fire out. It's possible I could have succeeded, were it not for more hands that hold fast onto my head. I think not of the composure a noble should hold; I twist and thrash under the small bodies, in their grips, and for a single moment savour freedom before a roar for aid, and a different body, heavier and stronger, throws itself upon me. It pins me down, ignores my pleas as I try to struggle free. _The burning!_ _Alas, how can they not feel it?_ And then hands are clutching my face, forcing my eyes to meet clear, blue ones. A torrent of elvish echoes throughout the cave, beautiful and soothing: I feel myself relax, fatigue grips, slowly, slowly I descend again into black…

This time I merely sleep. The burning is gone, replaced now by a tickling, aching cold, not nearly as fearsome as before. Lightly, I shiver alone in the timeless black ere I feel two bodies snake beneath the blankets to my side. I feel warmth again as they huddle close and at last I relax, shivers ceased. It is easy to guess that the two are Merry and Pippin, and almost subconsciously I wrap my arms around my Little Ones.

It seems only minutes before I awaken to the sight of Mithrandir, crouching down beside me. "The illness has passed," says he, "Rest, Boromir. There is a while yet afore we move."

And I obey, for I know by now that if Mithrandir says it, it must be right.


End file.
